When the papers were exhausted, the conversation of the Palmers became more steady and personal.
“Guess you’re goin’ out to-night with that Jew-kike uh yours,” said Harry, trying to get a rise out of Blanche. “Can’t you pick out somethin’ better than a Christ-killer, huh?”
“What’s it to you?” she asked, coolly. “Show you a good-looking Jewish girl and you’ll fall all over yourself trying to date her up. I know you.”
“Sure, but I’d just play her for what I could get,” answered Harry. “I’ve got a notion you’re kinda sweet on that Loo-ee Rosenberg, ’r whatever his name is.”
“Well, she’d better not be,” said the father, with a scowl. “I don’t mind when some kike takes her out for a good time—their jack’s as good as any other guy’s—but I’m not lettin’ any Jews get into this family.”
Blanche gave them a scornful smile. She was far from being in love with Rosenberg, and the matter was neither pressing nor irritating, but she felt a general defiance against their masculine habit of laying down the law to women.
“I guess I’m old enough to tend my own business, pa,” she said.
“Oh, you are, huh,” answered her father. “Well, maybe we’ll see about that.”
“Aw, I know what’s eating both of you,” said Mabel, in her expressionless, thinly liquid voice. “You’re sore ’cause Harry lost to a Jew in that fight he had up in Harlem. Kid Goldman, that’s the one. When you going to beat him up, Harry?”
“I’ll get him, I’ll get him, don’t worry,” her brother answered, frowning as he remembered the affront to his vanity. “I was outa condition that night, and my left wasn’t workin’ good, that’s all. Wait’ll I get him in the ring again.”